


It Doesn't Go Away

by Bobsled_Hostage



Series: Fish in the J8lhouse [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: You're free. You can do anything you want. And you do nothing.





	It Doesn't Go Away

You ask your mother not to throw a party. The last thing you want is to be surrounded with distant relatives and their assorted sycophants, all reminding you with their presence of where you spent the last 13 months.

She agrees. You invite your friends over instead. Jade, Dave and John, for a small gathering. They hug you and laugh and tell you how great it is to see you. They notice the differences in the way you talk, stand. Meet or don’t meet their eyes. Conversation comes to a screeching halt several times when your mouth dries up and you can’t find anything to say, or say the wrong thing. You notice Dave avoiding you, and you’ve had a couple drinks by that point and you’re really not in the mood to deal with that. You have to corner him and go several full sentences before you realize you’re screaming at him. He mumbles an apology and you scream because you don’t want him to be sorry, you want him to fucking _talk_ to you.

A couple more drinks after that and you’re puking, because it’s been a year and you forgot how to pace yourself. Jade holds your hair and rubs your back. John and Dave are talking in another room, random words sticking in your mind as you sob and wait for the consequences of your choices to finish punishing you.

Because they’re your friends (in spite of everything you put them through) they stay with you until you feel better (but not much), until next morning.  You whisper apologies, because you have the presence of mind to be contrite even though you meant everything you said. They tell you it’s fine. That they’ll be there for you again if you need them. They hug you and kiss you and then they leave. And house is massive and empty, same as it ever was.

You have more space to move around in, whenever you want, than you’ve had for a year. You can take a long, hot bath instead of a shower. Sleep in a bed almost as big as your cell. Soft fabrics. Whatever food you want. You can see the sun whenever you want, when it isn’t occluded by clouds and rain. You can walk into the woods, among the streams and pines, and hear no human voice but your own for hours. You can have as much space to yourself as you want, and be alone whenever you like. And even when you don’t. Mom’s home one day of the week, if that, spending the rest of her time in labs and boardrooms and bedrooms around the country or planet. You miss her when she’s gone and despise her when she’s home.

You're free. You can do anything you want. And you do nothing.

You don’t have to work, and even if you did nobody’s hiring ex cons. Re-applying to school can’t happen for another month or two. Most children of your generation at least have the decency to finish college before moving back in with mommy. You couldn’t even manage that.

Maybe the only good thing about being put away is that it forced you to get clean. Now you’re out, and you’re even old enough to drink, and there’s _so much booze_ in the house. Every kind of base spirit, mixers and bitters to suit any taste. And no constraints on your use of it. If you were to somehow drink enough to put a dent in the liquor cabinet, your mother would just buy more. Would ask you which one you wanted, specifically. You think about asking her to get rid of it all, but she’s been patient enough with you already.

It’s a half hour drive to the nearest town, and you make it when you’re sober and you can find the energy, and an excuse. Errands. Groceries. Trips to restaurants when you can’t be bothered to cook, or when you crave a minimum of social interaction.

It’s the little things set you off.

The way the woman in the library flips her hair. The smell of cigarette smoke outside the Starbucks. Not full on panic attacks. Sheer brute force familiarity and repetition beat those out of you. Just enough to startle you into dropping things, to make your face heat up. Choke you up so you have trouble speaking. You realize a second later that you’re safe. Nobody here will make you suck her off and eat her ass and scream her name and beg her not to hurt you.

It doesn’t go away.

**Author's Note:**

> Firewalled from the main fic because it might end up significantly different in tone


End file.
